


please don't hold me to it

by oforamuse



Series: season 11 [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 11x02, Fill, M/M, Season 11, fill in, reaction fic, set between the scene with the prison chef and uncle mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28176567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse/pseuds/oforamuse
Summary: mickey’s not going to force himself into a system that wasn’t built for people like him. a system that doesn’t want people like him.fuck the legal way – the legal way has never helped him.11x02 reaction fic
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: season 11 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2053422
Comments: 8
Kudos: 88





	please don't hold me to it

**Author's Note:**

> hi all! hope you are well and have had a good week since the last episode. this is just a little exploration of a moment in between scenes. 
> 
> thank you to [michelle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23086414/chapters/55229047) for just being the general best and to my eight friends, i can't wait to watch the episode tonight with you all <3 
> 
> title taken from [kyoto](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tw0zYd0eIlk) by phoebe bridgers

Mickey leaves his meeting with José as smug as the cat that got the fuckin’ cream and then some more. His pockets are a couple of hundred dollars heavier and his ego is inflated in his chest like an eager kid with a party balloon. Kicking the truck into action, he drives North away from the prison with a smirk on his face, the dumpster full of expired food and a happy customer left behind. He plans to dump the truck in a parking lot somewhere on the Northside and hop the L back home. Maybe he’ll even catch a cab – he’s got cash to burn. 

_You hear that, Gallagher?_ He wants to say, _your layabout husband has cash to burn._

He taps the steering wheel in an excited rhythm as he takes a left turn, the panic and anger from his interview earlier has worn off and the adrenaline from proving himself right — and everyone else wrong – has ignited a fire in his bones. 

Take that, Ian. 

Take that, Amazon. 

Take that, fuckin’ _Jerome_. 

Mickey is bored of being underestimated, pushed around and shoved into a box – not when he has so much more to give. All his life he’s been told by other people that he needs to be _there_ and do _that_ . If he did what his dad ordered and led the life he wanted him to, he’d become a king and the Southside his subjects. If he came out of the closet and ' _accepted'_ himself, he’d be free as a fuckin’ bird. And the kicker, if he pulled his shit together and stuck to the system, then things would fall into place and his nuclear, peachy keen life would begin. 

Be there. Do that. 

But, that never made sense to him. 

How is something supposed to _begin_ for him if the cards never fell into Mickey’s favour to start with? If the rules and regulations hindered him, rather than helped? 

_Fucked for life_ , he used to say. 

He’s not going to force himself into a system that wasn’t built for people like him. A system that doesn’t _want_ people like him. 

Fuck the legal way – the legal way has never helped him. 

Never. 

Mickey’s never been able to rely on it and he sure as hell has never benefited from it. 

The legal way didn’t help him with his last shitty parole job — when he’d actually, for once, tried to walk the straight and narrow. Chasing after teenagers with cheaply made clothes shoved down their pants wasn’t part of his life dream, but it was a _hell_ of a lot better than Paula’s bullshit ambulance scam he found himself roped into. According to Ian, she had been at that operation for years and despite all that, she was still allowed to be assigned to people as a _legal_ parole officer. She still held the power to send people back to prison in the palm of her hand. 

The legal way didn’t help him when they threw him behind bars the first time. Lack of substantial evidence, Sammi’s word against his, the Gallaghers standing to the sidelines whilst he covered Debbie’s ass. It was his name that sealed the deal — the shitty lawyer assigned to his case knew it, the judge knew it and Sammi’s lawyer knew it. Everyone turned a blind eye, job done and there was one less Milkovich on the streets. 

The legal way didn’t help him when he was a kid. It didn’t help him when he was a susceptible seven year old and his father pressed a gun into his hand for the first time. _You’re on look out, kid._ It didn’t help him on the days his stomach ached from hunger, empty and rolling without sustenance. Or when his father’s fist formed bruises on his unclean, neglected skin. Or when he was dropped in the system for a year whilst his father ran jobs, his bed a different one every other month as he was passed between institutions and homes like a rapidly spreading virus. 

Plates smashed, blood spilled, bones broken.

The legal way never stopped _him_. Never burned the Milkovich House of Horrors to the ground. 

The legal system approved Terry’s parole time and time again, releasing him back into the wild to wreak havoc and burn any bridges to freedom Mickey may have painstakingly built for himself.

So no, Mickey doesn’t trust the legal way. 

Cops, skewed judges and lying politicians. The system. The ones who are supposed to uphold and carry the beacon of justice, protect the law and yet, Mickey knows they’re the biggest culprits of the lot. They slip through the cracks and crevices, getting away with worse crimes than he’d ever attempt to make a little dough. In fact, Mickey considers stealing from a corporate giant like Amazon a bit of a public service. A robbing from the rich and giving to the poor kind of thing – hell, he could fancy himself a bit of a Southside Robin Hood if he kept up the gig. 

Grinning to himself, he leans forward in his chair to check out the road ahead and figures that now is a good time to start looking out for places to dumb this piece of junk. The ring on his finger catches the light and sparkles as he takes a turn onto a small side road. 

Ian’s always had a part of himself reserved for rules and systems – leftover residue from morals instilled into him from his ROTC days. _Left, left, left, right, left._ Even more so, Mickey is aware that Ian had built up some semblance of normality for himself pre-Beckman Correctional. Being an EMT is about as official as shit can get, but a felony and a prison sentence later, things have changed. With this fuckin’ virus, things have changed. So, Amazon is it for him and Ian can live legally if he wants to. He can give in, sell his soul, let them handcuff his wrists and grind down his bones until they’re nothing but dust – that’s his choice and Mickey wants no part of it. 

The system has never wanted a part of Mickey.

Now, if Ian could get off his ass and let Mickey do his own shit – then they’ll be golden. Money will be coming in from both sides - enough to cover Debs’ rent rates, food and a little on the side to spare on booze and lube. What’s not to love? 

Life can be _easy_ if Ian lets it be easy. 

The urge to call him up and gloat is there, bubbling under the surface furiously. _See, asshole_. 

He goes to reach his phone from where it sits on the passenger seat, but a sudden twinge of guilt in his gut wraps around his wrist and holds him back. In his bones, Mickey knows Ian’s fear is deeply rooted in one of them falling into trouble and ending back in prison. It’s in his marrow and sinews, the fear of being forced apart again after finally putting the distance behind them in the rear view mirror and driving forward to a future together. Fear of all of this – his life, _their_ life – ending up down the toilet and in the Chicago sewers below. 

Begrudgingly enough, Mickey’s worried about it too. He’s not going to admit to it a smug Ian and give him any sort of satisfaction, but he can’t deny that the thought tugs on his chest. They’re almost coming up to a year of freedom, a year of life without chains and Mickey has no intention of finding himself back there.

He’s careful. He’ll _be_ careful. 

Shoving the thought of distance and broken hearts to the back of his head, Mickey drives into a deserted parking lot behind a couple retail units and parks up next to a row of trees. Giving it a quick look round, he confirms for himself that there are no security cameras pointed his way ( _see_ , careful) and pulls the key out of the ignition. He grabs the envelope full of cash from the dashboard and shoves it down his pants – better be safe than sorry – and picks his phone up from the passenger side.

The movement causes the screen to light up and display Mickey’s notifications. 

3 texts from Sandy sit awaiting a reply. 

**[5:16pm]** _you coming to franny’s princess party, right? Gonna be a shit show._

**[5:20pm]** _debbie is losing her fuckin mind_

**[15:21pm]** _gallaghers…_

Mickey scrolls through, snorting at his cousin’s frustrated tone and fires off a quick reply. Despite feeling pleasantly validated by Sandy experiencing the taxing part of being in a relationship with a Gallagher first hand, his attention is pulled by the comment about Franny’s birthday party. 

The kid is great – she’s funny, quirky and probably the least annoying member of the Gallagher clan (his husband included). Sickly sweet with a hard edge, it would be hard for Mickey to believe she’s a product of her mom without having known Debbie when she was once a sickly sweet red-head with a hard edge herself. 

He leans back against the truck, raises his face towards the sun and closes his eyes for a moment. Franny’s look of disappointment at Ian’s ill attempt at gifting a box of stale Cheerios this morning is etched into his mind, and vaguely he remembers passing a couple stores a few blocks back. He caught the kid in their room admiring his nunchucks a few days before, running her small hands over the metal rings – he’d chastised her and placed them on a higher shelf, but not before missing the gleam of wonder in her eyes. 

He’s seen that look. He knows that look. _He_ has that look. 

Mickey was once a five year old kid filled with wonder, curiosity and all the other good, childish things that were slowly beaten out of him by the Milkovich way. Birthdays came and went without fanfare, their importance ebbing away as his mother fell into the background and Terry took the reigns.

Mickey can’t remember his fifth birthday, but it’s hard for him to imagine it was anything less than lonely. Sometimes, Mickey looks at Franny – at Freddie, at Liam – and wonders how different his life could’ve been had he had people batting in his corner the way she does. 

His mother tried and eventually, failed. Terry drank, yelled and bullied his way through every major life event. But what five, six, seven year old Mickey would’ve given for a box of stale Cheerios and a party he didn’t really want. 

Mickey wants to do that for Franny, _be_ one of the people in her life that he never had. Bat in her corner and help her achieve all the shit she wants out of life. 

The kid doesn’t want a princess party? The kid ain’t getting a princess party. Not on his watch. 

Mickey’s a couple of hundred dollars richer and there’s a five year old back home who deserves a perfect birthday. Making the decision quickly, Mickey hops back into the truck and turns the gas on with a deft hand. Checking the rear view mirror once, Mickey reverses and swerves out onto the main road and begins back in the direction he just came from. 

He’s got one more stop to make before dumping this thing.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading and stay safe this holiday season! remember to support small businesses during this time and if you have the means to, avoid using amazon and giving any more money to jeff bezos at all costs <3 
> 
> as always, find me on [ twitter](https://twitter.com/buzzcutian)/[ tumblr (fic) ](https://oforamuse.tumblr.com)/[ tumblr (main) ](https://matteoamiras.tumblr.com)


End file.
